


Clueing for Looks

by Lavender_and_Vanilla



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't Post To Another Site, Early Relationship, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Greg is a Saint, Heck even Anderson knows, Hurt/Comfort, John Knows, M/M, Mycroft is stroppy, Sherlock is clueless, Sickfic, Victorian Flower Language, background Johnlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27833881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/pseuds/Lavender_and_Vanilla
Summary: It's no secret that Mycroft and Greg are now seeing each other. Somehow Sherlock hasn't figured it out.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Comments: 83
Kudos: 285
Collections: Mark Gatiss birthday collection 2020, Mystrade Sickfics / Hurt-Comfort Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillian_jdc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/gifts).



> Many thanks to anthea's_blackberry and copgirl1964 for being beta readers. <3

**I.**

Mrs. Holmes hung up the phone, staring at the receiver. Her husband, sitting at the kitchen table, looked up from his newspaper expectantly. “Well!” She exclaimed. 

“Well what, dear?” He asked patiently.

Mrs. Holmes turned to her husband. “He says he has ‘plans’ and won’t be able to join us Sunday,” she replied astonished. 

“Mycroft? Has plans?” Mr. Holmes considered the idea for a moment. “Good for him.” He went back to perusing his newspaper. 

“He never has plans. Work, yes, but plans?” Mrs. Holmes sat down at the table. “I don’t understand,” she wondered aloud, baffled.

“Don’t you think it’s about time he has plans?” Mr. Holmes asked without looking up from the article he was reading. 

“Yes, but what are they?” Mrs. Holmes asked. 

Mr. Holmes looked at her and shrugged. “Why didn’t you ask Mycroft?” He replied reasonably.

Mrs. Holmes looked aghast. “You can’t just ask, ‘What are your plans?’ He would’ve offered to tell me, if he wanted me to know.” She paused. “I’m calling Sherlock.” She stood and picked up the phone. “He must know. Those two are as thick as thieves…” she mumbled as she dialed.

* * *

_ Meanwhile… _

Mycroft Holmes replaced the receiver of his office phone and stared at it. He did it. He actually did it, and it wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. 

“Well?” 

Mycroft looked up at Greg Lestrade. Relaxed and smiling, the handsome DI sat across from Mycroft’s desk. “I told her I had plans,” Mycroft replied, still a bit stunned at his temerity. 

“Yes…” Greg encouraged Mycroft to keep talking. 

“I told her I had plans this weekend and would be unable to accompany them on their monthly visit with Aunt Margaret.”

“And?”

Mycroft smiled. “Mummy said, ‘Alright then, will you join us next month?’ And I said,” Mycroft looked really pleased with himself, “Perhaps.”

Greg grinned at Mycroft. “Now that wasn’t so hard was it?” He stood and came around the desk to stand above Mycroft. He smiled fondly at the man before lowering his head to kiss him. 

“No,” Mycroft breathed as he accepted the kiss. 

“Now that’s settled. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, at 8 am.”

Mycroft shivered with pleasure at the thought of a weekend away with Gregory. “Where are we going?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.” Greg dropped a kiss on Mycroft’s nose and stood up.

Mycroft scowled slightly and rubbed his nose. “I would like to know what clothes to pack.”

Greg paused at the door. “Whatever you like, love,” he replied grinning. “You won’t be wearing them for long.” Greg winked and let himself out, leaving Mycroft blushing furiously. 

  
  


**II.**

“Yeah, alright.” Mobile pressed to his ear, Greg sat up and reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. Mycroft grumbled, pulling the covers over his head. “Give me 10 minutes, 15 max,” Greg murmured into his mobile before hanging up. 

“Sorry, love,” Greg said hoarsely. He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Duty calls.” He stood and made his way to the bathroom.

Mycroft peeked out from under the covers and sat up blinking owlishly. “What time is it?” He asked.

“Half four,” Greg called out from the bathroom.

“I might as well get up then too.” Yawning, Mycroft found his glasses and put them on. 

Greg smiled at the rumpled and sleepy version of Mycroft.“You don’t have to yet.” Greg finished tucking in his shirt and buckled his belt. 

“No, but I’ve a 7 am teleconference. I can use the time to further prepare.”

Greg coughed and cleared his throat again. He took a drink from the water glass on the bedside table.

Mycroft had pulled on his robe on his way to the bathroom. He paused next to Greg and put his hand on Greg’s forehead. “You sound congested. Are you feeling alright?”

“Throat’s just a bit scratchy, is all.”

“Hmm… Take a handkerchief from the top drawer of my dresser.” Mycroft kissed Greg’s forehead and resumed his journey to the bathroom. 

“Yes, love,” Greg replied, amused by Mycroft’s fussing. 

“And don’t forget your scarf!” Mycroft called out from the bathroom as Greg left. 

* * *

_ An hour later… _

Greg shivered and wished he’d remembered his scarf. It was cold in the unheated, abandoned mansion on Billionaire’s Row. A months old body had been found by a group of squatters. The likelihood it was another homeless person was significantly reduced by the quality of the clothes and accessories found on the corpse. He’d called Sherlock, who agreed to come look at the scene, but since the man arrived he’d not paid much attention to the case before him.

“Sherlock, would you please, focus on the case and not on me.” Greg gestured at the body John was kneeling next to.

“This is much more interesting,” Sherlock replied as he studied Greg. “You’ve not been home since yesterday. You’re wearing the same suit, but you were clearly sleeping before you arrived here. You still have traces of it in your eyes.”

John stood and came over. “Sherlock, Greg’s love life is none of our business.”

Greg sighed, sniffed and rubbed his face. 

“Of course, you’ve a lover and you were spending the night with them.” Sherlock puzzled over the mystery. “But who?”

“Not our business,” John reminded Sherlock.

Greg cleared his throat. “Look, if you’ve nothing to add regarding the case, then my team and I will get on with it.” Greg looked over at Anderson and Donovan as they stood none too patiently to the side. He nodded at them and Anderson began to direct the processing of the scene. 

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock waved at the other officers to go on. “There’s nothing to do now until the banks open later today.”

“Great,” Greg grumbled with another sniff. His nose was really starting to run. He pulled out the handkerchief he’d snagged from Mycroft’s dresser and wiped his nose. 

“Molly Hooper!” Sherlock crowed.

“What?” Greg looked at Sherlock confused.

“That’s who you’ve spent the night with. It makes perfect sense.” Sherlock got that manic look in his eye.

“Molly? Oh nice catch,” John smiled at Greg.

“Molly? No—“

“You said yesterday you had business with Miss Hooper at St Bart’s at the end of the day. You arrived here wearing the same suit as yesterday. It is well known you’re allergic to cats and Miss Hooper has a cat. Hence the incessant sniffling. And now you’ve pulled out a handkerchief that is clearly not your own.”

“This could be mine. I own handkerchiefs,” Greg muttered before blowing his nose. 

“Ones with “MH” monogrammed on them?” Sherlock looked extremely smug. 

“Oh for christ’s sake, Sherlock.” Greg looked at the handkerchief before pocketing it. Exasperated, he replied, “It’s not Molly.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s that posh bloke that’s been coming around this past month,” Donovan supplied helpfully as she passed by, snapping her gloves on. “What’s his name? Milo?”

“I thought it was Milford, or was it Milton?” Anderson chimed in from where he was unpacking his kit. “Anyway, it’s your brother, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t know you’re bisexual,” John commented.

Greg rolled his eyes, frustrated. “It’s not anyone’s business. Or even relevant to this case.” 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock was supremely dubious. “Good God, no. Not possible,” he dismissed the thought immediately with a grimace. “Well, give Molly our regards,” he said to Greg. “Come along, John.” Sherlock strode out of the building, with John hurrying behind negotiating for breakfast before their next stop.

Greg glared at his team. “Can we wrap this up? I’m getting a splitting headache.”


	2. Chapter 2

**III.**

“What do you mean, I have to take them?” Sherlock fumed. “I took them on the London Eye last time. It’s your turn to entertain them.”

“I told you Sherlock, I’m quite ill.” Mycroft wheezed. Sherlock could hear a series of muffled, wet coughs on the other end of the line. “I can’t possibly take our parents to the exhibition tomorrow,” Mycroft continued breathlessly, when he could speak again.

Sherlock made a face. “You sound disgusting.”

“Thank you. You’re so kind,” Mycroft responded peevishly. “So do you believe me now?”

“How did you manage to contract this plague?” Sherlock queried crossly. “You avoid interacting with people at all cost, and you’re a complete germaphobe. You’ve not touched a public surface with your bare hands in over a decade.”

“Two decades,” Mycroft corrected with a sniffle. “Even I have to interact with people from time to time.”

“Spare me. Who would possibly interact with you?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I suppose you better tell me the details regarding tomorrow,” he conceded.

“I’ve four tickets booked under my name. You can pick them up at the Ticket Collection desk at the Tate.” Mycroft began coughing again and Sherlock pulled the mobile away from his ear. John looked up at the harsh sounds and frowned. 

“Alright, I’ll be there.” Sherlock spoke into the microphone of the mobile. “Goodbye.”

“It’s a timed entry. 2 o’clock. Don’t be late,” Mycroft managed to get out between coughs. 

“Yes, yes. Shut up. Go take some linctus or something.” Sherlock hung up. 

“What’s going on?” John asked as Sherlock flung himself in his chair. “Is Mycroft alright?”

“Mycroft is supposedly ‘ill’ and I have to take my parents to the Tate tomorrow,” Sherlock groused. 

“Oh well that’s too bad, but you’ll survive. They’ll probably buy you dinner,” John commented and went back to his book. 

“Us dinner. You’re coming with me,” Sherlock announced. “Mycroft said there were four tickets.”

“Four?”

“How is he ill? He’s never sick.” Sherlock muttered irritably.

John shrugged. “You know how it goes with viruses.” He paused and mentioned casually, “Greg was sick last week, remember?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t explain why Mycroft is sick now.” Sherlock grumbled as he opened the newspaper he’d been occupied with before the call. 

John opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head and returned to his reading.

* * *

_ Meanwhile… _

Mycroft grabbed several tissues from the box on the coffee table, preparing to blow his nose. This was the worst cold he’d had in some time. It was the only cold he’d had in some time, now that he thought about it. He knew this cold had to have come from Gregory. This was a significant disadvantage to caring. 

He was still trying to clear his sinuses when Greg came in carrying a tray laden with cold medicine and tea. Mycroft blushed and quickly wiped his nose. “Apologies,” he muttered as he tossed the tissues in the bin nearby and applied some hand sanitizer.

Greg smiled sympathetically. “S’alright. It’s my fault you’re a hot mess right now,” he replied, setting the tray on the coffee table. He came around the table and sat on the sofa next to Mycroft, adjusting the blanket more snugly around Mycroft’s shoulders. “Besides,” he said fondly, “You’re cute all bundled up on the sofa, with a red nose and surrounded by tissues.” Greg plucked a wad from the folds of the blanket and threw it in the bin. 

Mycroft looked horrified. “This is not attractive,” he protested hoarsely. He handed over the hand sanitizer. “Use that, now.”

Greg laughed, taking a squirt into his hands. “Alright, alright.” He kissed Mycroft’s temple. “You talk to Sherlock?”

“Yes, it’s arranged.” Mycroft rapidly turned away and sneezed loudly.

“Bless you. I would’ve taken them, love.” Greg rubbed Mycroft’s back. “Bless,” Greg offered as Mycroft sneezed again.

Mycroft sat back with a sigh and a sniffle. “No. I don’t want you meeting my parents without me being present,” Mycroft responded, taking a dollop of hand sanitizer offered by Greg.

“Another time, then,” Greg replied agreeably. He offered Mycroft the tea he’d brought in.

Mycroft accepted the mug of honeyed tea Greg had made and took a sip. “Moreover, who would look after me in my hour of need?” He sniffed and leaned against Greg’s side. Greg smiled and gathered him in.

**IV.**

  
  


“I shouldn’t be gone more than a week, ten days at the most.” Mycroft carefully arranged the pieces of the board game in their appropriate spots in the box. 

“And you’re telling me this, why?” Sherlock glanced at his watch and took a sip of his tea.

After putting away the game they’d played, Mycroft took a drink of his own tea. “Only to let you know I won’t be available to extract you from prison or save you from being summarily executed due to your inability to mind your own business.”

“I do mind my own business,” Sherlock retorted. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep your big nose out of my business.”

Mycroft smiled tightly at that remark. “Yes, well, forewarned is forearmed.” He set down his mug and stood, gathering his coat and umbrella. “I’ll be leaving now, brother mine.”

“Good,” Sherlock looked again at his watch. “I’m expecting someone and I don’t want your bulk blocking the stairwell.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, a muscle in his cheek twitched. He opened his eyes, inclined his head, and left the flat. 

Partway down the stairs the front door opened and DI Lestrade came through the entry. He smiled brightly at Mycroft. “Oh hullo, fancy meeting you here.” He bounded up the stairs to meet Mycroft in the middle. “How’s his nibs?”

“Sherlock? Stroppy, as usual.”

“No, I meant you.” Greg’s gaze wandered over Mycroft. Mycroft flushed slightly. “Are you stroppy?” He shifted up to stand on the same step as Mycroft. Facing each other on the narrow stairs, their faces were close and Greg leaned in a bit closer. “I hope so. The sex is so good when you’re feeling stroppy.” He nipped Mycroft’s lower lip and then kissed him tenderly.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock called out from his flat. 

Greg pulled away, and admired the slightly dazed look he’d put on his lover’s face. “Yeah?”

“Why are you loitering?”

“Just sn…” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Greg, who grinned wickedly. “Chatting with your brother,” Lestrade called back. Mycroft rolled his eyes and Greg winked at him.

“Don’t do that, or he’ll never leave,” Sherlock complained.

“I’m leaving now, Sherlock,” Mycroft called out. “See you tonight?” He murmured to Greg. 

“Course.”

Mycroft turned to head down the stairs and Greg turned to head up. Greg bit back a yelp as Mycroft goosed him. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Mycroft’s coquettish smirk. 

  
“You’re definitely stroppy,” Greg whispered at Mycroft, who tripped happily down the stairs. With a shake of his head Greg made his way to Sherlock’s flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**V.**

“Are you sure about this, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. The reasoning seemed sound, but Sherlock could make a polar bear in the desert seem normal. 

“Of course I’m sure,” Sherlock replied. “They’ll be at the warehouse at nine o’clock to make the exchange. It’s our best chance at recovering all the stolen goods at one time.”

Greg sighed and picked up the phone. “Please don’t hang me out to dry on this one,” he begged just before the line connected.

“When have I ever?”

“Well, there was that time with the burglaries in Mayfair,” John mused.

“Yes, well, I couldn’t be expected to know there were three of them,” Sherlock retorted.

Greg hung up his phone. “Okay that’s sorted. We’ll meet at the warehouse in an hour to get into place.” Sherlock busied himself with his mobile, presumably texting his network of street folk. 

“Hey, boss,” Donovan stood in the doorway holding a bouquet of flowers. “These just arrived for you.” It was an unusual mix of flowers in a riot of colors. 

Greg blushed slightly and retrieved the flowers from his sergeant with a gruff thanks. 

“That looks like things are going well for you,” John smirked. 

Greg smiled, a bit giddy. “Yeah, early days, you know, but… yeah.” He sat the flowers on the edge of his desk and looked for a card. “Huh, no card.”

Sherlock looked up from his mobile at the bouquet. “It doesn’t need one. The flowers are the message.”

“Oh? What’s the message?” Greg asked, studying the arrangement.

Sherlock frowned slightly as he considered the bouquet. “Red carnation—my heart aches for you; blue cornflower—be gentle with me; yellow Marguerite—I come soon.” Greg’s face lit up. Sherlock shrugged. “Victorian flower language is more Mycroft’s forte.” His attention was back to his mobile and the text he just received. 

John raised his eyebrows. “Mycroft due back soon, is he?”

Greg cleared his throat. “I think so.” 

Sherlock replied, “What does that matter? We’ve preparations to complete.” He sent another text and stuck his mobile in his coat pocket. “Come along John.” Sherlock swept out of Greg’s office. John followed, but turned back briefly to give Greg a thumb’s up and a wink. 

  
  


**VI.**

Mycroft peered out the window of the sedan searching among the crowd and lights beyond the cordon line. Finally he caught sight of what he was looking for. “Wait here,” he instructed his driver and exited the car. A quick word in the ear of the constable at the line was all it took to have it lifted for him to pass through. 

The next obstacle to his destination was a little more tricky to negotiate.

“Dear God. What are you doing here?” Sherlock confronted him a few yards from his goal. 

“I’d heard there’d been a spot of trouble in your operation,” Mycroft replied coolly. 

“I’m fine, as you can see,” Sherlock replied. “And so is John. Thank you for your concern, but it is wholly unwarranted.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, brother-mine, but I was more concerned about Gregory. The reports indicated an officer was down.” Mycroft anxiously tried to look past Sherlock hoping to catch another glimpse of Greg. “Anthea had informed me—“

“Gregory?”

Mycroft sighed, “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock. Your refusal to learn his Christian name is childish and irritating.”

“Ah, Lestrade. He’s fine,” Sherlock replied dismissively.

“Wonderful.” Mycroft relaxed slightly. “Now if I might see for myself…” He dodged past Sherlock and headed for the ambulance where he’d caught sight of a silver haired man sitting with a shock blanket. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed when he reached the man’s side. “Are you…” Mycroft trailed off as he took in the sight of his battered partner. The medic was finishing dressing a cut through Greg’s right eyebrow. There was an abrasion on his right cheek and his trousers were torn at the knee. His right wrist was in a splint. 

“M’fine. Just took a tumble down the stairs in the chase. I’m a little banged up is all.” 

“I’ve done what I can here,” the medic announced. “You should go to the ED for X-rays of your wrist and your forehead’ll need stitches if you don’t want a gaping scar.”

“Oh Gregory,” Mycroft whimpered. 

With his uninjured hand Greg took Mycroft’s hand. “Hey, I’m okay, love.” Mycroft nodded, visibly reigning in his distress. 

“John, Lestrade called Mycroft ‘love’,” Sherlock announced. 

“Yes, yes he did,” John confirmed.

Greg raised Mycroft’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

“And he kissed Mycroft’s hand!” Sherlock sputtered.

Mycroft reached out with his free hand and ran his fingers through Greg’s hair attempting to smooth the tousled strands. “I came straight from the airport. Anthea said…” Mycroft shook his head. 

“John, my brother is touching Lestrade in a familiar manner.” Sherlock asked loudly, “Why?” 

Mycroft could only imagine the look on his brother’s face, as he refused to turn his eyes away from Gregory.

“Oh I don’t know Sherlock, why do you touch me in a ‘familiar manner’?” John drawled, clearly enjoying this moment. 

“Well, we are…intimate.” Sherlock murmured to John. “Wait.” 

“Aaannd the penny drops.”

_ Now _ Mycroft had to see the look on his brother’s face. He slid an arm around Gregory’s shoulder as he turned, and felt the man lean against his hip. 

Sherlock’s expression flitted from confusion to comprehension, back to confusion, and finally to quite cross. “Why did I not know?” Sherlock demanded of John, who shrugged. “Why wasn’t I informed?” He imperiously addressed his brother and Lestrade. 

“Not really your business who I’m shagging,” Greg replied, still holding Mycroft’s hand in his own.

“Gregory,” Mycroft admonished softly, his cheeks pink. “Really? ‘Shagging?’” He tsked. 

“Honestly Sherlock, all the clues were there, if you’d just looked,” John remarked.

Donovan had approached the group and was watching the exchange. “You didn’t know?” She asked, amused. “Even Anderson and I knew the Inspector was seeing your brother.” 

“But Molly Hooper…” Sherlock protested weakly

“Is a very good friend, but we aren’t seeing each other.” Greg and Mycroft exchanged fond glances. “I’m taken,” Greg declared, as Mycroft smiled warmly at him. 

Sherlock groaned, “The initials on the handkerchief were Mycroft’s. And it wasn’t your allergy to cats, Lestrade, but instead a cold that was making you sniffle.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft accusingly. “That’s why I had to take our parents to the Tate a few weeks ago, you’d caught Lestrade’s cold. It’s also why Mummy has been badgering me about why you suddenly have plans and who’s the mysterious partner you were going to introduce to them.”

“And the flowers today,” John reminded Sherlock. “You knew Mycroft was out of town and Molly you’d just seen a few hours ago.”

“You got the flowers?” Mycroft asked Greg.

Greg nodded. “Sherlock deciphered the message for me.” He winked at Mycroft. “I’ll be gentle.”

“I rather think, I’ll need to be gentle with you,” Mycroft retorted. “Given your injuries.”

“Oh God stop,” Sherlock pleaded. “We must go, John. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Great,” said Donovan. “I was going to ask you to come down to the station to give your statements.” She gestured to the unmarked car. “It’ll get you out of here faster than waiting for a cab.”

“And you,” Mycroft addressed Gregory sternly. “Are coming with me. We are going to have you properly evaluated before going home.” 

“Yes, love,” Greg acquiesced with a smile, clearly looking forward to the fussing to come. 

Mycroft gently guided Greg towards his waiting car. They were almost out of earshot when he heard Sherlock remark, “They’re actually well suited for each other. I really should’ve thought of it sooner.”

“Yes, you should’ve,” agreed John.

“Don’t tell them.”


End file.
